It’s a close call as I get (s)hut up

I’m detained in the joint. I’m caged in the slammer. I’m locked up in the big house. I’m sure it’s going to be more of a Schabir-sized incarceration than a Mandela-sized stretch, but doing time is doing time.
It’s Sunday afternoon and Rachel, my 2-year-old daughter, and I are pottering in the garden. We’re making friends after a dramatic start to the morning, which involved my bicycle, some toddler tinkering, a broken spoke, a firm rebuke, time out and streams of tears. After watering the plants I step into the shed to put the hosepipe away. The door closes behind me.
I turn to leave, but the door won’t budge. Rachel has slid the bolt. It’s an accident. That is to say, I’m pretty sure it’s an accident. What I do know for certain is that I’m on the inside and she’s on the outside.
“Sweetheart,” I call. “Let me out.” Nothing. “Please open the door for daddy,” I say. Nothing.
Just silence. Five minutes goes by then Rachel comes to the door.
“Are you being good?” she asks. “You must be good,” she scolds.
“OPEN! THE! DOOR! NOW!” I holler. Nothing.
Think like an inmate, think like an inmate. What would a hardened convict do to get out of tjook? It comes to me in a flash: bribery. I smile. I’ll be out of here in Schabir, Chippy and Mo of a lamb’s tail. (That’s three Shaiks.)
“Honey,” I cajole, “do you want a sweetie? Let me out and I’ll give you a pink Fizzer. And then we can go inside and read the kangaroo book. You love the kangaroo book.”
I smile. She can’t resist. I wait. Nothing. My daughter’s incorruptible. 
“Bye, daddy,” she says eventually, “I’m going to visit my friend in Germany. Remember, you must be good,” she says and I hear her toddle off. 
I wait. Five minutes. Another five minutes. Another 10 minutes. The Shrink, my crossword comrade, will come looking for me soon, I think. I settle down to compile some crossword clues for the occasion: She had locked me in the hut (4)* and Rachel causes pain on the inside (4).**
Another five minutes. Walls close in on me. I feel faint. I breathe heavily. What happens if I run out of air?
“HELP!” I yelp. Nothing. I choke up as I picture the children watching TV happily and The Shrink engaged in the ultimate act of seditious, treacherous, treasonous betrayal – sneaking off to do a Sudoku while I expire in the shed. 
I look at my prison. I can’t wait for help. I must get out of here on my own. There must be a way out. I search my pockets for something Macgyverish to break out of my cell.
In one pocket is a till slip, a tissue and a peppermint. Perhaps I could fashion a bomb out of the peppermint and blast my way out of the shed? Nah. I look in my other pocket and find my cellphone. Duh! Maybe I can call C-Max escape artist Annanias Mathe for some tips on busting out of the clink. My phone flashes. It’s telling me I don’t have much battery juice. Probably enough for one call. I smile. I only need one call to summon the cavalry to spring me.
I phone the house. It rings. Four rings. Seven rings. Eleven rings. And then, just as I’m about to give up hope, someone picks up the phone. “Please come rescue me,” I beg. “I’m locked in the shed. No air,” I gasp.
“Daddy,” says a little voice. It’s Rachel. “I can’t come now. I’m going to Germany. Are you being good?” 

*SHED: “She had” is “SHE’D”, which is a hut.
**ACHE: The “inside” of “Rachel” – ie without the first and last letters – is ACHE, which is a synonym of pain.